


Never Forgotten

by AelaLachance97



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Male Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Miqo'te Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Not Beta Read, Past Haurchefant Greystone/Warrior of Light, WoL/D has a lot of emotions, no betas we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-07
Updated: 2020-04-07
Packaged: 2021-02-22 23:49:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23535658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AelaLachance97/pseuds/AelaLachance97
Summary: In the time following the events at the Rak'tika Greatwood, the Warrior of Darkness takes some time to try and relax before the next big excursion. Unfortunately, a certain Ascian sees the time fit to interrupt with curiosities and questions.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 12





	Never Forgotten

**Author's Note:**

> An attempt at writing my Warrior of Light, N'vhun, still dealing with losing Haurchefant even after he thought he was finally over it. Grief and heartbreak never leave, they just become easier to live with and hide.

The Pendants are surprisingly quiet.

Not that inns aren’t generally quiet at night, but with the recent return of the true night sky, N’vhun is genuinely surprised that there isn’t more bustle happening about the many rooms and in the lobby. He doesn’t take long to reflect on it, though. He’s tired, and the soft, warm bed waiting for him in his reserved room is sounding more and more appealing by the second.

The Miqo’te dips his head in greeting to the manager of suites, but doesn’t pause long enough to converse, giving a small apologetic smile before striding down the hall to his room, pushing the large wooden doors open and letting them close heavily behind him once within. He leans back heavily against the wood, a sigh sounding just shy of relieved escaping him as he tilts his head back and closes his eyes, the tension in his features and body slowly fading. It doesn’t last, however, the hairs on the back of his neck and along his tail raising with the prickle of a familiar presence.

“Emet.”

N’vhun’s voice is decidedly less than enthused and overall not surprised, his words coming out much more like a tired sigh. At receiving a low ‘hm’ in response, the Seeker slowly opens his eyes and is immediately met with the familiar golden gaze of the Ascian, unreadable as it always is. The man had apparently taken no shame in making himself comfortable in the time it took for N’vhun to arrive, his lanky frame draped over one of the chairs at the table in the dining-kitchen area. The Miqo’te briefly wonders how long he’s been waiting here. His quiet thoughts are soon interrupted when the man speaks up, seeming to be suddenly satisfied with having his attention now.

“Come now, dear Warrior, must you be so cold? After all I’ve done for you thus far?”

That voice, _oh that voice_. Normally, N’vhun wouldn’t be so bothered, but worn and weary as he is, the Ascian’s voice is absolutely grating on the last of his frayed and fragile nerves.

“If you’re fishing for a _proper_ greeting, you’re not getting one.” His voice isn’t necessarily harsh, but it definitely reflects his currently irritable mood. “What are you doing here, Emet? I’ve already thanked you for your help in Rak’tika.”

The man in question snorts almost indignantly, shifting in his seat to sit up a bit more and cross his arms. “Oh, please. I haven’t come all this way and waited in your quarters merely to ask for more praise, _hero_.” His emphasis on ‘hero’ has N’vhun’s eyes narrowing, his tail flicking in slight annoyance. He stays quiet, however, as his uninvited guest continues. “Oh, no. I’ve come on more personal business, actually.”

“I’m not in the mood for your games right now.” N’vhun is so quick to speak that he nearly cuts the other man off. Slowly, the Seeker hefts himself away from his position at the door, his weariness clearly reflected in his movements as he makes his way to the small kitchen area, taking a moment to light a burner on the stove before retrieving a kettle and filling it with water. The silence permeates the room, the sound of him setting the kettle on the stovetop to heat up ringing out much louder than it should have; he almost turns to check if Emet-Selch is still there before catching himself. He doesn’t really care, honestly. If the Ascian did in fact disappear, it just leaves the Miqo’te more time to himself to rest. 

Instead, he moves to the small shelving unit nearby, still resisting the urge to check if his company is still present; the familiar and sharp tang of dark aether in the air tells him the man is indeed still in the room, but the faintness could mean he’s only recently gone, or it could just mean he’s getting used to the other’s presence. He keeps his attention away, though, and retrieves a sealed glass container of dried herbs before turning to take a spot near the stove again.

“How are you faring, hero?”

The jar nearly slips from N’vhun’s grasp.

All his resolve to not look back dissolves as his head snaps around, locking his gaze on the Ascian with a look of shock. A poorly concealed one at that if the other man’s snort and raised eyebrow are any indication.

“What’s _that_ look for, hm? Are you so unfamiliar with concern?”

It takes the Seeker a while to find his voice, the sound dying in his throat multiple times before he manages to force it out. “Why in the Seven Hells do _you_ care about how I’m doing?” The words come out much more harshly than he intended, his teeth clenching once finished speaking to keep from spitting out something in accusation as his fingers tighten around the jar of herbs.

It’s quiet again. And it remains that way until the rustle of fabric makes N’vhun’s ears swivel forward, straining in desperation for any more indication that the Ascian is still there to answer him. Slow, soft footfalls reward his intent listening as the other man approaches, the Seeker’s gaze immediately dropping to the floor despite feeling the sear of molten gold eyes on him. Still the other moves forward, and the Miqo’te has to fight the urge to take a step back. Emet is too close now, and he wants nothing more than to bolt from the situation. The silence is so uncomfortable that the Seeker nearly sobs in relief when the other man finally speaks again.

“Is it not obvious?” Emet nearly drawls. There’s a vague undertone of mockery in his voice that comes very close to setting N’vhun off, but he speaks again before any words can form. “The way you reacted at the very near loss of one of your own? Your other friends may not have noticed, but your fear, your desperation… They were so potent _I_ could nearly taste them. I believe witnessing such a _mighty_ hero experiencing that would be as good a cause as any for some concern.”

The Miqo’te’s throat is tight as he swallows thickly. He doesn’t lift his gaze. He’s almost afraid to at this point. The knowledge that someone mostly unfamiliar with him - someone who was _supposed_ to be an enemy - could see through him so instantly and clearly set his nerves on edge. It had been that obvious? He had known at the time that Y’shtola had her reasons to do what she did. He even respected it, her sacrifice for the greater good of the people she had come to love. And yet…

“Would her passing affect you so greatly, dear Warrior? Surely _one_ life lost out of _thousands_ wouldn’t be enough to break you.” N’vhun doesn’t like his tone; it feels almost as if he _knows_ something. Like he’s not only talking about Y’shtola anymore. 

There’s a moment of silence before the Ascian gives a low ‘tsk’ of annoyance, and suddenly a gloved finger is pressed beneath the Miqo’te’s chin, insistently lifting his head slightly and calling for his gaze to rise. He has no choice but to oblige.

Whatever he expected to see upon meeting the Ascian’s attention, his current very serious and almost inquisitive expression wasn’t it. His normally sharp and analytical gaze is muted, almost soft, but still has that focus that would make anyone trapped beneath it long enough squirm. N’vhun’s expression must do something to the other man, though, for a somewhat amused light makes its way into his eyes. He leans in close, and once again the Seeker has to battle the urge to back off as his ears pin flat to his skull; he can feel the prickle of something he’s desperately trying to drive back behind his eyes at being exposed and vulnerable in this way to the Ascian, and he knows he may not be able to stop it. Backing away from him would just unveil another moment of weakness, and he’s not willing to give him the satisfaction of that too. He’s brought back, however, when the silence is filled once again.

“Oh, do not look at me so…”

The murmured words ring with a familiar sting of anguish in his heart, and N’vhun’s breath catches in his throat as he feels the impending tears welling up.

Emet’s expression is still something other than his usual one of boredom, but the intent and emotion are still vague enough for it to be considered unreadable. If the Seeker had to describe it, he would say the man looked almost satisfied; he had gotten the answer he wanted, and N’vhun didn’t even have to say a word. There is, however, something else beneath that satisfaction… If he didn’t know any better, he would almost say the Ascian understood. When the other speaks once more, he could almost swear there’s something close to quiet sympathy, though it’s somewhat carefully masked away with the more familiar tone of mockery.

“Ah. How terrible it is, to love something that death can touch.”

N’vhun’s breath catches again, and the tears he assumed were further away suddenly spill over as images flash in his mind’s eye: _a warm smile, a flash of silvery blue hair, hot chocolate shared by the warmth of a fire, slim, calloused yet gentle fingers stroking his cheek and carding through his hair…_ And suddenly, he’s _certain_ Emet is no longer referring to Y’shtola.

His ears are ringing, and he can’t tell if it’s from the shock of the other man’s statement or the shrill whistling of the kettle that he’s just now noticing. He does, however, know one thing for sure, and that’s that the feeling swelling in his chest beyond the shock and sorrow is something he hasn’t felt so potently in a long while.

_Anger_.

Deep, dark, and seething anger.

“Get out.” He lowers his gaze once more, teeth clenching hard enough that he’s almost grinding them, his hands tensing around the glass jar so tightly that the tips of his fingers and his knuckles turn white. He doesn’t realize how quietly he spoke until the other makes note.

“Pardon? I don’t think I heard you, hero.” A quiet snort follows the statement. “Perhaps you’d better tend to that dreadfully noisy kettle first.”

The Seeker’s gaze snaps up at the attempt at humor, and the burning combination of rage and hurt is enough to make the Ascian step back. When N’vhun speaks again, his voice cracks yet still manages to become a growl. “Get. _Out_.”

The hint of sympathy he had pulled from Emet’s tone doesn’t matter to him now. He doesn’t care if the other man understands, now, or even if he has gone through the exact same hardship. _He had no right to cross that line_.

When the Ascian doesn’t immediately take his leave, N’vhun growls again, fully aware that the tears steadily marking his cheeks must make him less threatening but not able to bring himself to care. His anger drives him, and he hurls the glass jar in his hands at the other man.

He’s gone in a vortex of darkness almost the instant the jar leaves the Seeker’s hand, leaving the glass to shatter pathetically on the floor, scattering shards and flakes of dried herbs alike across the wood for the Miqo’te to clean up later. There’s barely a moment of silence before the screeching of the still boiling water in the kettle overwhelms his senses, and he quickly moves to dim the burner. When that doesn’t immediately quiet the harsh noise, he grasps the handle and desperately flings the metal vessel from the stove, sending it clattering heavily to the floor alongside the glass.

Breath hisses through his teeth as boiling hot water spills from the spout and open top, soaking his hand and wrist and turning his skin an angry red. In truth, the reaction is mainly out of instinct; with his heart pumping hard and his body nearly quaking, he can’t feel much of anything at the moment. Slowly, he staggers back, bringing his opposite hand up to run fingers lightly over the now likely burned skin before leaning back against the nearby counter heavily, sliding down carefully to sit on the floor. 

It takes N’vhun a long while to realize the desperate, choking sobs he hears are his own. His chest hurts. He can’t breathe. The room around him blurs as the tears he can no longer stop flood his vision, leaving cold streaks upon his cheeks. He briefly wonders if Emet is still watching him from somewhere he can’t see, or if the Exarch is watching from that scrying glass he so favors from within the Crystal Tower. The thought sends fresh waves of ashamed tears rolling down, and he can’t bring himself to try and wipe them away.

Some great hero he is.


End file.
